


Warm, Not Hot

by W1tchmom



Series: Buster Keaton/ Reader ficlets [3]
Category: Buster Keaton - Fandom, silent film - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W1tchmom/pseuds/W1tchmom
Summary: Buster and you play hooky on a hollywood premier to go camping instead





	Warm, Not Hot

"Oof, it's so hot," you said, poking at the flames with a long stick.

"It's fire," Buster said.

"I know but...how can I check on the fish if I can't get close enough to see..." you inched closer to the flames and peered into the pan where the two rather smallish fish you and Buster had managed to catch were sizzling. They seemed to be shrinking as they cooked, which didn't bode well for your grumbling stomach.

"I'll know when they're done, don’t worry about it."

"Do you need help with the tent?" you asked as he disappeared under a mass of beige canvas.

"Nope," he called doubtfully from beneath the writhing tent, but then there was a sudden clatter and an odd sort of imploding motion. You bolted up to see what was the matter, lifting up one edge of the canvas. Suddenly his face appeared, and he grinned.

"Is this a gag? Are you acting right now? I can't tell." you asked.

"This is not a gag. This is a new tent. Can you hold up this corner?" he asked, handing you what looked like a randomly selected segment of the heavy fabric.

"Is this a corner?" you asked

"Oh hush up and do as I ask." he said, stifling a laugh as you held the alleged corner over your head.

The tent only collapsed, souffle-like, two more times before it was staked down and looking rather pleasantly tent-ish. In that time, the fish had burned, but Buster assured you that they tasted better that way and you ate without complaint. 

"What kind of fish is this, anyway?" you asked, poking at the crisp skin.

"Trout, of course."

"Oh, of course." you said, secretly suspecting that it was, in fact, not trout at all. Perhaps some other, smaller species. "I've never caught a fish and eaten it right away like this. I mean my brothers would bring home fish to eat, or I would go with them even, but we brought them home to cook. Never on a fire, I mean."

"It's better this way." he said through a mouthful.

You hummed in agreement.

"Oh!" In a sudden flurry of movement Buster had jumped up from his spot on the ground and was scampering into the tent. You didn't ask what he was doing, you just kept chewing, knowing that he'd explain when he got around to it.

He returned with a bottle of wine and two camp mugs. Settling back down on the blanket on the ground, he poured the wine and handed one to you. "And to think you coulda been bumpin' elbows with the upper crust tonight."

"The dress I bought for the premier is a size too small. A deadly combination of wishful thinking and shopping on an empty stomach. Besides, those society girls have such very sharp elbows." You peered into the ruby depths of the mug of wine. "Anyway, the view is better here."

"Yeah," he agreed, clinking the rim of his mug with yours before you both took a sip and turned to the vista that spread out beyond the cliff where you'd made your campsite. 

"You reckon that storm is headin' our way?" you asked, nodding towards a mass of black clouds gathering in the west.

Buster narrowed his eyes. "I've been keepin' my eye on it. It might be. You made of sugar or something?"

"I'm not scared of any rain." you said, eyeing him over the rim of your mug as you took a large gulp of the bitter wine. 

The sky stayed clear long enough for you to watch the sun dip low and red below the horizon, but the stars weren't all the way out before the clouds rolled in and the wind began to pick up. Fearing for the dry summer grass, the two of you stamped out the fire when the wind threatened to blow it out of control and, with no fire to sit around, the two of you climbed into the tent.

"Sorry about the stars" he said, shrugging out of his jacket and looking a bit put out.

"Oh. Once you've seen one you've seen 'em all" you shrugged.

"We could try again tomorrow night," he offered.

"Aren't you going back to work?"

He shrugged and avoided eye contact, digging through a trunk and retrieving a flashlight. He clicked it on and off then on again and pointed it under his chin, casting his angular face in disconcerting shadows.

"I'll stay another day," you said "as long as you promise not to scare me with ghost stories."

"If it rains?" he asked, looking up and tossing the flashlight back into the trunk.

"Even if it rains."

"Are you really scared of ghost stories?" He sat down on the edge of his cot and kicked off his shoes. It was a funny thing, really, knowing that if the gossips found out that you and Buster had gone on a secretive camping trip alone with one tent they'd be besides themselves with excitement and speculation. They'd never believe the truth, which was that your two cots were very primly on opposite ends of the tent and he'd hung up a sheet over one corner to change clothes behind.

"Not at home. Usually. But outside, at night, when it's storming?" you laughed "Yeah. I'm a little scared of ghost stories then."

"Well, remind me another night. I've got some good ones i’m itchin’ to tell." he fell back on his cot and folded his hands under his head.

Even though the wind was fierce and the tent lit up with lightning every so often, the rain was relegated to an occasional drizzle while the both of you got into bed and talked into the darkness. It wasn't until hours later when you were fast asleep that the heavens broke open.

A sudden deluge of cold water hit you on the face as a seam in the tent above you burst open with the weight of pooled rain. You shrieked and bolted upright in time with a peal of thunder and a crash of lighting bright enough to illuminate your disastrously soaked bedding.

You couldn't see him, but you heard Buster sitting up too. "What happened?"

"I'm drowned!"

"Huh?"

"Oh, get the flashlight you dummy."

He grumbled something but after a moment there was a light flashing around the tent, finally settling on the sizable rip on your end of the tent. 

"Damn." he mumbled. "Are you wet?"

The flashlight was in your face then and you glowered at the shadowy figure behind it's source, your hair sticking to your cheeks and your nightgown clinging coldly to your side. He had the unmitigated gall to laugh and you were about to pelt him with a sodden down pillow before he clicked off the light.

"I won't look. Get out of that mess and get in with me before you catch cold."

So maybe the gossips would have something to talk about after all. You had half a mind to refuse his offer until a particularly strong gust of wind blew through the tent and you shivered. Modesty was a privilege you didn't have then, and, with some difficulty, you peeled your wet nightgown and underthings off and tossed them over a chair. Trying not to think about it too much, you shimmied in next to Buster when he pulled down the edge of his sleeping bag. You'd never been more grateful for the cover of darkness.

He hissed through his teeth when you got in. "You're like an ice block."

"Yes, well that's where you come in, isn't it?" you chattered

The cover of darkness was no match for his hands, however. At least your face was warm, what with the ferociousness of your blush as he ran his hands over your arms and pulled you against him. 

"Hey buddy, the goal is to get me warm, not hot, right? No funny business." you protested even as you squirmed closer, pressing as much of your frozen skin against the warmth of his pajamas as you could.

"Oh? Do I get you hot?" he asked and you could just hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please shut up."

He obeyed, thankfully, and you were almost asleep again before a thought occurred to you.

"In the morning, you will not open your eyes until I say so, alright?" you murmured against his throat.

He didn't reply.

"Buster Keaton I know you aren't asleep."

He snored. Fake snore. You fell asleep plotting revenge and studiously ignoring how very warm he really was.


End file.
